


Sense of an Ending

by LuxeApocalypse



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, But with a positive ending - stick with it and see, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Complicated Relationships, Death from Old Age, Drugs, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Frottage, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Life Partners, Love, M/M, Mild Kink, Mutual Masturbation, Near Future, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Oral Sex, Passion, Past Violence, Post-Canon, References to Drugs, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Scenes from a life, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 02:05:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxeApocalypse/pseuds/LuxeApocalypse
Summary: Fifty-six years later, Edward Nygma reflects.  A series of scenes from the lives of Oswald and Ed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, dedicated to winedarksea for her sterling advice, and to nihil0 for always bringing the style.
> 
> This is a multi-chapter series. I don't know exactly how long it will be; probably around five or six chapters in total. What I can safely say is that it will be longer than my last story. 
> 
> I'll add more characters to the tags as they appear or are mentioned in the story.

_There is no hate as fierce as love._

_**the future** _

 

He wakes to an empty room after a night spent tossing and turning. The nights are the worst. His dreams are full of people from his past and present, many now gone. They're warped and elusive, laughing as they slip beyond reach into hazily-defined crowds, looking like they've been left out in the rain.

The bedroom comes into focus as the blankets settle cool against his bones. He feels the cold far more acutely these days; the dampness of the manor doesn't help. A wall-faced girl, upright and sharp in her maid's outfit, brings him his sparse, preferred breakfast of a croissant (heated, not toasted), a wedge of butter, orange marmalade and tea. There's a card on the tray; he ignores it. Back in the day, when print media still existed, his breakfast would arrive accompanied by a stack of newspapers. It had been one of the pleasures of their mornings together, his and Oswald's; reading the _Gotham Gazette_ , voraciously skimming for any mention of themselves.

He sips his tea; he barely touches the food.

Placing the tray to one side, he pulls himself out of bed. It takes longer these days for the energy to flood back into his body. Not that there's much of it left; the battery is running dry. There are enough things for him to do during the day, though they fail to adequately distract him; on the contrary, they draw attention to the meaningful things that live in memory. He staggers towards the window without the aid of his cane; grapples with the handle, pushes it open. He places his hands on the ledge and leans out, looking.

On the horizon, over a bank of treetops, Gotham's skyline looms unreal; disturbingly clean and gleaming, like a cartoon or photomanipulation grafted against the sky. Double the height and breadth of its predecessor, the skyline lacks the imposing, albeit grimy, majesty of yore. Some of the older Gothic and Art Deco buildings remain, peeking between the flashy new efforts like wildflowers pressed between silvery shards of grass.

The sky is flawless, with just a few wispy clouds and the faintest of breezes rippling the trees.

It's a beautiful day.

He can appreciate _that_ , at least.

Edward Nygma, retired supervillain and recent widower – in a fashion, anyway - is 85 years old today.

 

*******

_**the past** _

_**nygma** _

The strange man's walk makes Edward Nygma think of a wounded creature dragging a crushed hind limb, fixated on survival, doggedly ignoring the pain.  Ed catches his eye and glances away; regardless, he can't help but follow the man's compelling trail.

Oswald Cobblepot, noticing, turns his head; gives Ed a _look._

Soon the pair of them draw level on a platform. There's an awkward silence, the two of them looking straight ahead. Ed wonders whether he should initiate the conversation. Turns out he doesn't need to, for Cobblepot turns first.

_“Can I help you?”_

“I don't think so.” Ed spins to face him. “Can you?”

They share a snicker. Ed's is companionable; Cobblepot's a warning. Ed admits that he cuts an impressive figure, lack of height notwithstanding. He exudes a certain cold-eyed presence that alters the composition of the air. Given Cobblepot's growing notoriety, Ed half-expects him to exude the scent of death; instead he smells of lavender, citrus, sharp vetiver, a hint of marine salt. _A well-blended scent,_ he thinks; _expensive, obviously._ It's a pleasant surprise.  He fights the compulsion to lean closer and take a sniff, like he'd done that one time with Miss Kringle. Her expression had said it all, and he'd known not to do it after that.

“What do you want?”

“What I _want_ … the poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it you'll die.”

Cobblepot regards him with mild bewilderment. Ed, for his part, is caught off guard by how young he seems, especially when the light reveals the delicate sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

“Do you like riddles?” he asks, smiling.

“No.”

 _How adorable,_ Ed thinks. He senses a man mentally working overtime to retain his form.

“So, do you give up?”

Cobblepot waves a dismissive hand, shakes his head; asks Ed his name.

Ed wonders, just for a moment, what it would be like to annoy him. He'd _love_ to annoy him, in fact. He pictures squirming, wounded outrage, the sort that could go either way. It's addictive, just like worrying a chapped lip until it bleeds; like sticking pins through one's fingerpads and marvelling that it doesn't actually hurt. Ed's always been good at solving things; seeing and deciphering patterns others cannot. He's revealing himself, this pretty, peevish young man – revealing himself just for Ed.

“Edward. _Nygma._ I know who _you_ are.”

There's a pause in which the surrounding sounds and sights merge, then retreat; the ping of typewriters, the tearing of paper, the thud of slamming desk drawers. Somebody bellows at someone else; a sheaf of paper is hurled across a desk.

Then Cobblepot's face closes again. There's the faintest twitch of a smile, glacial and insincere.

“Then you know you're standing too close.”

It's emphatic enough. Ed takes a step back. He gets it alright. They exchange a few more words before Ed gives up and scuttles away to lunch. Perhaps Miss Kringle will be there, he thinks, brightening; sitting at her usual table, daintily unwrapping her sandwiches, sipping her tea. She might even smile at him, if she's in the right mood.

He's grateful that this odd exchange is over; grateful to normality for intervening, for bringing everything back into focus. He doesn't glance back.

He'll take his own lunch back to the lab, where he'll eat at a bench among sterile glass jars and spidery piles of equipment. He's been warned not to do that - several times in fact - but eating in the lunchroom only serves to underscore his sense of being alone. He wonders if Cobblepot eats by himself. Probably. He pictures him in a dark office, hemmed-in by overlarge, imposing furniture; frowning and stabbing at his meal with a fork.

 _Perhaps I should file away this particular exchange for now,_ he thinks. He can always take it out and look at it again later.

In later years, Ed will remember this meeting with fondness; a congress of two fabulous, terrible beasts encountering each other in the wild for the very first time. Pawing the earth between them, tasting the air; poised to attack, to flee, or to share the same space, nibbling from the same patch of grass.

 ***********

_**cobblepot** _

_“I know who_ you _are.”_

 _Good grief._   He's _insufferable_ , Oswald thinks; like an itch that won't quit.

Of _course_ he loathes him on sight, this ... this  _tryhard_ with the bright, curious, open face.  How could he _not?_  Stalking him as if he were some kind of trophy animal; relating some stupid riddle; brimming with a frankly _pathetic_ need for validation, just … just  _pushing_ it when he needs to get out of his face and stay in his godforsaken lane.

Yet Nygma doesn't budge.

_How dare he stare him down like that!_

So he steps forward, and issues his final warning.

Apparently chastened, Nygma takes a step back.

_Good._

It's far from over, though.  

For under that easy smile, the chirpy demeanor, lies the suggestion of ... of  _something else._ Nygma's eyes are warm and expansive under the glasses; yet seconds later – _did you know emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?_ \- they glisten black, motionless; reptilian, almost, underscoring the hint of menace in the clipped _'t'_.

It's an innocent observation. Apparently.  Who knows, really?  At the very least, he has a … somewhat _unconventional_ sense of social propriety.

_How can this fool be two things at once?_

_Still,_ _it simply wouldn't be pertinent , given the present company, just to shoot the insolent fuck right here where he stands._

It's almost as if this Nygma fellow _sees_ him, somehow; Oswald merely cannot fathom exactly _what_  it is he sees. It takes some major courage to do what the man just did. This he can admit.  Yet how can he, Oswald Cobblepot, possibly gain the respect he _deserves,_ when some random riddle-spinning imbecile considers it perfectly acceptable to just stroll up to him and start yapping away like they were old friends?

 _No matter._ He glares at Nygma's retreating back, then gathers himself and glances around. A woman with towering hair parades by with a box, almost knocking him over. He wonders where the hell Jim has gotten to. It's lunchtime or pretty close to it; he hopes he hasn't missed him. Tonight's the launch party for his nightclub; hopefully the first of many. An empire of nightclubs and other, less ...  _public_ business interests with himself at the helm, standing astride Gotham like a colossus, his reach stretching across the entire state and beyond. That's the dream. _Oswald's_ represents the first step. His _real_ beginning. And he wants Jim to be there.

 _He'd better be there_ , he thinks.

 ************

_**nygma** _

_Thinkthinkthink!_

Ed's managed to haul a zonked-out Mr. Penguin into the elevator and up to his apartment without being seen.  He's fast asleep (with the help of a syringe full of propofol to the neck – administered without permission of course, but needs must) and snoring loudly enough to upend the bowels of the earth. The sound is quite frightful, and Ed wonders how he himself is going to get any sleep; his apartment is a medium-sized studio, with one double bed and a small en-suite bathroom, and he doesn't particularly relish the prospect of sleeping cramped up on the two-seater sofa.

Not only that, but Mr. Penguin smells revolting; layers of days-old sweat mingled with stale cologne, the metallic aroma of dried blood, a disconcerting hint of pee. Ed huffs, hands on hips, and prays his guest didn't wet himself _after_ he'd tossed him onto the bed. Now _that_ would be terrible. Pee was just pee, after all, but he simply cannot afford a new mattress right now.

He's going to have to give Mr. Penguin a wash, but doesn't fancy dragging him over to the shower, and getting him into the bath is completely out of the question.

Ed takes a large pair of pinking shears and cuts through Mr. Penguin's clothes, wincing as he does so (the waistcoat, shirt and pants, even in their filth-and-blood-encrusted state, look _horrendously_ expensive; he prefers not to linger on the man's inevitable reaction when he wakes up and realizes Ed has hacked his precious threads to ribbons). _Still, I've cut up far more unpleasant things,_ he muses with a sentimental chuckle. Not that Miss Kringle was in any way unpleasant, of course, but the job of cutting her up probably wouldn't rate highly on the average person's list of enjoyable pursuits.

Job done, Ed gathers up the clump of torn attire and tosses it into a garbage bag. He pulls a face as he tugs off Mr. Penguin's socks, which appear to be welded to the skin of his sweaty, malodorous (and curiously overlarge, Ed notes) feet.

Then Ed goes to the sink and fills a large glass bowl with warm water, squeezes in a big blob of antiseptic and some black peppercorn and coriander shower gel, tosses in a yellow sponge, and walks back over to the recumbent crime lord. He rubs his hands with sanitizer and pulls up a chair, his surgical tools arranged in a neat semi-circle on a small table to his right. He keeps his attention on Mr. Penguin's ruined shoulder, cleaning the area with more antiseptic, plucking out the shrapnel, suturing the wound. Other wounds are treated in short order. It's hardly the most precise of jobs, but it's the best he can do under the circumstances. Perhaps Mr. Penguin would have wanted to be taken to a hospital, but Ed knows that wouldn't have been the best of ideas.

Then he bathes Mr. Penguin, turning his head away slightly to give the man some semblance of dignity. Locked in a sedative haze, his guest barely stirs, muttering something indiscernible before tumbling several storeys into dreamland once more.

An hour later and Ed's sitting astride his chair, staring at Mr. Penguin, chin resting on his fist and feeling rather accomplished, if still a tad fretful. Not only has he cleaned up and stitched Mr. Penguin's wounds and helped him smell fresh as a daisy, he's also managed to stuff him into an old but clean pair of pajamas, given to him innumerable Christmases ago by a half-blind aunt who'd always misjudged his height.

Ed goes to the kitchen area and makes himself a cup of camomile tea. There's a tingle in the pit of his stomach, and he enjoys the sensation, but he suspects it's one of those feelings that will keep him up all night, pacing with excitement, attacked from all sides by a million thoughts, and he can't have that. It's been a long day, and he'll need to sleep soon.

He stands over his guest, sipping and pondering. _This is more than a chance encounter,_ he thinks; _this is an opportunity._   Hopefully Mr. Penguin will be grateful, when he finally comes around … when he's _allowed_ to come around, that is. Mr. Penguin might be able to advise him; to mentor him in his chosen path, even. They might even become friends, although Mr. Penguin doesn't really strike him as the sort of person who has any use for friends. He isn't sure he has any use for them himself, not now.

His guest slumbers through the night and most of the following day, Ed keeping a close eye on the situation. Rolling him into new positions to prevent bedsores; wiping threads of drool from his chin with a handkerchief.

Then the sedative wears off, and Mr Penguin finally decides to wake up.

Eyes flutter open, filmy and dazed.

 _“Hello, sleepyhead,”_   Ed says, beaming.

 

 *********

_**cobblepot** _

There are night noises; the howl of cats, the rumble of a distant helicopter. A searchlight roams the building, glinting through the skylights and shuttered windows. Oswald's in Ed's bed, scrunched up in his preferred fetal sleeping position; Ed lying beside him on his back.

_“Oswald.”_

Oswald's eyes spring open. He _hates_ it when Ed does this.

_“What?”_

“Did you know that the average person produces enough saliva to fill two bathtubs every year?”

Oswald yawns. “No, I did _not_  know that.  I don't suppose I'll ever _need_ to know that, either.”

“I have four legs and a head and cannot walk. What am I?”

“A bed. Too easy. You're slipping.” He yawns again, stretching this time, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through his still-healing shoulder.

“What's black and white and ...”

“... _Ed,_ it's _two in the morning.”_

“... Okay.”

Oswald squints in the dark. “It's … it's not that I _mind,_ Ed, not specifically. It's just ... I _really_ need to sleep right now.”

Ed pauses, his silence shot through with mild disappointment. “I hoped it _would_ help you sleep.”

“Never mind.” Oswald chuckles and rolls over. _“Goodnight.”_

It's not long before Ed's breathing evens out and he's away.  

But Oswald remains awake, thinking.

When he'd come around in Ed's bed for the second time, a part of him had wished he could have stayed asleep forever. He'd had dreams of wandering through blindingly hot, parched streets, empty of all discernable life. Feral creatures stalked him, blocking his path, jumping onto him to gnaw at a wrist or tear at his hair. He was chasing something; his mind groped this way and that, looking for a sign – any sign - that his mother was still there.

Ed had spoken to him of eschewing love; of remaining unencumbered as he'd pinned him with a stare that had felt more like an embrace. His words didn't make Oswald feel better; not really. He _knows_ he should try harder to keep his emotions in check; he also knows he really shouldn't take advice from any individual capable of killing loved ones of their own. Still, Ed's words succeeded in numbing him for a little while. _That's something,_ he supposes.

Yet when the anger boils up, as it frequently does, causing Oswald to rage and break things, Ed stands by and watches; mildly fascinated, patient as a saint. He takes off his glasses – a precautionary measure - and wipes them with a tissue. He gives Oswald the space to burn himself out. Oswald's rage reaches a crescendo as he luxuriates in the thought of stomping Galavan's face into the dirt, over and over; he curses profusely, starts kicking the sofa with his good leg while teetering on his wrecked leg.

That's when Ed steps forward to restrain him, pulling him so close that Oswald fears his bones might splinter; allowing his own strength to bleed into him. Oswald wonders where this strength comes from.

Things just feel _easier_ around Edward Nygma. His garret apartment is the cheapest in the building, yet he keeps everything meticulously tidy. He fills every space with efficient energy. Whether he's twirling chopsticks, holding a blowtorch to a hapless Mr. Leonard, or happily reciting one of his (admittedly tiresome) riddles or “fascinating facts,” he always looks like he's holding an extra special treat behind his back; one he can't _wait_ to share with you. He can turn a head of cabbage and some ground beef into a wonderful meal. He expounds on the migration cycle of eels like it's the most thrilling thing in the world. He turns and smiles at Oswald while chopping vegetables or drying crockery; it's like an invisible hand reaching inside Oswald's chest and giving his heart a gentle, affectionate squeeze.

It's gestures like these that throw the brittleness of the surrounding world into sharp relief. Nobody but his mother ever bothered to reassure him like this. Oswald knows human nature only too well; knows the world has to be this way, for people like himself at least. He's meant to take the very worst the city has to offer; to grapple with it, to conquer it. This city is filled with unfinished people feigning hard edges. They are the nerves of the city, and the nerves are exposed and raw. But sometimes they need solace, too, and that's where people like Ed come in.

The night after they'd tortured and killed Mr Leonard, Ed had driven him out of Gotham and up the coast for a night-time picnic by the beach; for Oswald's “recovery,” he'd said. Oswald had been grateful for the distraction, all told. He'd been confined to that stultifying, small apartment for what seemed like aeons, and it was starting to get to him.

They'd reclined on a tartan blanket as Ed unpacked a cumbersome basket filled with dark red wine, salmon coulibiac, bread and cheese. The moon peered through a streaked and murky sky that looked as if it had been torn open. They'd talked about their lives; Ed more guardedly. They'd established a kind of common ground through the uniform awfulness of their school days; heads pushed into flushing toilets, dangled over stairwells by their feet, teachers who never really gave a shit. Ed spoke of being alienated by his peers; a preternaturally-gifted child who'd been moved two grades ahead following the results of an IQ test that left the principal open-mouthed and his mother's hands twitching nervously in her lap. Oswald had noticed the little push of pride in Ed's voice as he recounted this story. He'd escaped at 16, winning a scholarship to Gotham University two years early to study forensics. He'd never mentioned his father, which Oswald found curious.  

Back in the present, Oswald imagines young Ed, walking down a hall, clutching his textbooks to himself like a shield. He pictures doors opening and slamming; hot gusts of music blaring rudely. Ed disappears into his own sparsely-furnished room, dog-eared books piled everywhere, unopened packets of ramen scattered about. He sits at his desk and flaps open a book to stare at pictures of mangled corpses with an air of detached, faint amusement.

 _It's not friendship,_ Oswald thinks; _not exactly._ There's a distance between them that bestows whatever it is they have with a certain elegance, like two companionable strangers travelling together in the same carriage. They can sit at the table together in silence, reading the newspapers, neither feeling compelled to fill the space between them with small talk. This distance precludes pain; it makes what they have richer, more meaningful somehow.  He can't really explain it.

It's moments like these that help Oswald understand what Ed means when he speaks of remaining unencumbered. People who allow themselves to become too enmeshed in the lives of others inevitably wind up hurting those others and themselves, intentionally or not.

Yet he and Ed are, to all intents and purposes, sharing a life of sorts, without naming it as such.

Months from now he'll reflect on this time, wondering when the turn occurred and that sense of travelling in the same carriage, united in sympathy if not physicality, deepened into love; when he realised there was no difference between that feeling and love.

 ************

_**the future** _

 

Ed walks back over to the bed where the card lies untouched on the tray. He picks it up, glances at the embossed pattern on the pale-green envelope, and opens it. It's from Ivy. She wishes him a happy birthday; says she'll drop by the manor for tea that afternoon.  The card depicts a sentimental rural scene, the kind that doesn't really exist anymore. There's a cottage with a flowerpot by the door; a tiny dog with a wide, laughing mouth scampers up a path. The scene is almost unbearably cheerful; there's a wooden gate, a distant hill, the sun disappearing behind a bank of trees. Ed notices Ivy hasn't written _“many happy returns.”_ One should _never_ write that in a card destined for an elderly person. He's heard that somewhere before.

_Oh well._

Last time they'd met, Ivy had talked about the two of them and Harley going on a cruise to Mexico and South America together. _Good heavens, no._ It was his idea of hell; weeks of tacky cabaret and all-you-can-eat buffets, forced to make small-talk with McMansion-dwelling dullards and their risible grand-spawn _(“So, what did_ you three _do for a living before you retired?”)._  Ivy had made a similar suggestion to Oswald a few years ago; Ed smiles as he remembers Oswald's dismissive scoff.

 _Still, the card is a nice gesture,_ he thinks.

Then the sadness resurfaces, brimming over.  He needs to go outside; take a walk around the grounds. He needs to ask Anna to prepare a tea for Ivy's visit.  He just needs to do ... _something._

Actually, he doesn't know what the hell to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed remembers, continued.

_the future_

Back in the empty present, Ed enters the walk-in closet and dresses in a dark green velvet suit with black lapels, the suit Oswald had custom-made for Ed's fiftieth birthday. It doesn't matter that the style's somewhat dated.

Oswald's suits still occupy the bulk of the space here; Ed can't bring himself to pack them away. So exquisite, every one; the years breathing through layers of velvet, brocade, silk with fur trim; ordered bespoke from Brioni, Caraceni, Gieves and Hawkes. Like going backwards in time, twenty years, thirty, fifty; he pictures himself standing before Oswald, straightening his collar or smoothing a lapel. Then more voluptuous memories slip through; Ed smirking, stripping away the layers from an Oswald blushing to the edge of his hairline, open-mouthed in anticipation.

Two months ago, less than four months after Oswald's passing, a fashion museum contacted Ed; said they wanted to take some of the suits for permanent exhibition. The Penguin, they'd breathlessly explained, had been a _'style icon'_. He'd been so much more than _that._   Damn them.  More than their tiny, puerile minds would ever know.

Ed had cut them off.

_Vultures._

Swallowing the bitterness, Ed snatches up his cane and leaves the bedroom. He descends the curving staircase and makes his way to the front door, intending to take a walk around the grounds.

Outside, the lawn is springy and damp; there's a slight chill, but the sky remains unbroken, the sun bright, and Ed feels slightly rejuvenated. The surrounding trees absorb the distant city noises, dulling the sounds of traffic to an ambient hum.

Then it dawns on him that the quiet is too much.

The city compels him, even though precious little of the Gotham he knew – his Gotham, _Oswald's_ Gotham – remains. He visits Stoker Cemetary each weekend to place fresh lilies on Oswald's grave, but hasn't ventured into the apex of the city itself since Oswald's funeral.

He doesn't know _why_ he has to go there; he just knows that he _should._

He pulls out his connex-pad and orders a cab.

**********

Twenty minutes later, Ed alights outside a row of warehouses, holding onto his hat with one hand. There's an incline down to the Gotham river, which runs biliously, catching reflective twinkles. The scent of the sea pours into the network of streets. A gigantic, glittering structure rears up to his right, a herald for the supertalls clustering behind it. The city feels safe and calm in the mid-morning; there's a placid wind, circling gulls, negligible trash. Ed adjusts his hat and strolls on.

One warehouse in particular catches his eye. Once upon a time, this building housed the poky little studio apartment he'd rented while working for the GCPD. Where he'd murdered Kristen Kringle and his disparate selves merged, becoming one; where he'd nursed Oswald back to health; where the two of them had tortured and killed Mr Leonard; where they'd spent long hours talking, eating Chinese takeout and commiserating far into the night. He approaches a ground-level window and peers in. Every floor has been hollowed out and filled with glass partitioning, moving staircases and bubbly furniture in shades of chartreuse and orange; it's all exposed brick and Feng Shui principles. The ancient, clunky central elevator has been replaced by silver bullet-like ones crawling up and down the walls like smooth bugs.

 _The entire place looks like it's trying too hard,_ he ponders dryly.

Looking up, he spies the one-time attic space with its skylights and little squares of glass. He recalls how the buildings opposite blocked out the sun; how he'd always felt grateful for the searchlight that swooped at interludes, providing him with better light at night than during daytime. His nights had been consumed by work he'd brought home – illegally, of course - endless cups of coffee, and little sleep; pacing up and down, unable to shut out the whirlwind in his head. There was a brief period, not long after he'd first started working at the GCPD, when he thought he should try to make friends, to be 'normal', to go to nightclubs and talk to people. He remembers standing alone at a bar, a place of blurred light and canned euphoria, where clubbers necked pills, downed cocktails, slurred at each other. Most ignored him, although a few stared at him. He wondered what they thought they'd seen.

Unable to enter whatever space they occupied, he'd left abruptly, walking fast and purposeful along rain-spattered streets, wrapping his arms around himself.

Ed glances up at the window a second time. He remembers entering another space, the right space this time, with Oswald; the two of them tipsy and bent over his electronic piano, singing old tunes, changing the lyrics to filthy ones, collapsing in laughter.

This building is office space now; a panopticon filled with tenants who can't escape each other, staring at each other through the transparent walls, trapped and going mad.

It makes him think of Arkham.

*****************

_the past_

**_nygma_ **

The last few months have been tough. Fending off the attentions of bullish, rapist inmates and guards (he'd assumed “don't drop the soap” was an urban myth – it wasn't). Swallowing dreadful food unfit for pigs (the memory of the corned beef hash served on Tuesdays still gives him psychosomatic gastroesophegal reflux). Being forced to “socialize” with people who'd clearly stepped off a cross-sectional diagram of the evolution of man.  And that was _before_ all that terrible business down in the basement ...

... He'd made his own fun in there, of course. And at least they hadn't succeeded in breaking him. Not like poor Oswald. Now _that_ would have been a tragedy and a half ... had it stuck. Not least because he himself would still be trapped in that hellhole. But now ...

… But now Oswald is back, and _how._

Sinking into Oswald's limousine feels dreamlike. Oswald hands him a flute of champagne (Krug Clos d'Ambonnay, no less; he's definitely moved up in the world) and a chocolate-dipped strawberry from a sleek dark box (tacky, but a nice thought). Oswald rubs his shoulder companionably, and the pair of them drink a toast to their mutual freedom. Ed leans against the backrest and stretches out as the first mouthful of bubbles slides down his throat, his release certificate slipping from his fingers.

The car pulls away from the gates, and soon they're riding through the night, storefronts and bars streaking past, pedestrians huddled and hurrying. They run into a traffic jam at the Sprang Bridge interchange, and Oswald gets testy. It's roadworks, _again._ Oswald looks out of the window; explains that the city's always wasting money on pointless stuff like this; stuff that grinds the city to a halt during rush hour. He says this definitely won't happen when he becomes Mayor. Ed turns to him, curious. Oswald gives him a conspiratorial smirk, tells him he'll explain everything back at the manor, and offers him another strawberry.

The only potential blotch on the horizon is the well-built man occupying the seat next to the driver. Oswald introduces him as _“Butch Gilzean; an old associate.”_ The man looks as if he _should_ exude a sort of earthy conviviality; Ed expects a jovial greeting, an enthusiastic handshake, a “how you doin', pal?” Instead, the man barely inclines his head; he grunts out a word that only _might_ have been _“hello.”_

_Hmm._

The coiled-spring feeling resurfaces; one he's only too familiar with. A sense of two people recognizing each other as the enemy, without being able to articulate _why._  

 _I'll have to do something about that,_ Ed muses, draining his glass.

***********

**_cobblepot_ **

“You don't think the tan's a step too far?” Oswald looks in the mirror, turning his head from side to side, pulling a face.

“Not at all,” Ed says, standing up. “You'll photograph better.”

Oswald frowns and tugs on his lapels. “Explain, please”.

“Well ...” Ed moves closer, camera in hand. “For one, you don't look like someone who shuts himself away in an office. You look like a man who enjoys being proactive, stepping outside to meet his constituents.” He snaps a Polaroid. “And the public just _loves_ that.” Ed's smile widens. “See?” He hands the photograph to Oswald and takes a step back, still beaming. 

Oswald bites back a retort, looks down at the image, and relaxes. Of _course_ Ed is right. He always is. He always knows _exactly_ what to say ... what to _do_ , bless the man. He peers closer at the photograph. The dark circles under his eyes have diminished; the rosacea across his nose and cheeks has faded; even his jawline appears more prominent. He smooths back his flattened hair; another of Ed's suggestions. Oswald had initially protested the hairstyle, complaining that it would make him look “old.”

“But that's a _good_ thing,” Ed had protested. “You're a young man with a criminal record, taking on an immense responsibility. _This_ style, on the other hand ...” he tapped the image he was holding, ripped from a hair magazine, “... _this_ style conveys maturity. Growth. _Redemption._ People will trust you implicitly.”

Oswald nodded in the stylist's chair, still not totally convinced, wincing as Ed gave the order and the barber sauntered forth, scissors and pomade in hand.

But Ed had been right. Again. _Lord knows where I'd be if I'd left such minutiae to Butch, who has all the finesse of a sack of potatoes regarding such matters,_ Oswald muses. He allows himself a satisfied smile. The campaign is exemplary. His timing couldn't be better. Gotham's a city sick to the back teeth; a city perfectly primed for a man like himself, a man who'll go to the wire to get the job done. Someone who moves among the carriers of the disease, and as such, knows perfectly well how to treat the sickness. Someone who loves the bones of this city, despite all that it has wrought.

Oswald Cobblepot realizes he is tantalisingly close to having everything he ever wanted. Power. Respect. The love of an entire city.

 _And someone to share my life with, hopefully,_ he ponders, glancing at Ed.

 **********

_**nygma** _

_What the heck was_ that _all about?_

If Ed hadn't known better, he could have sworn Oswald had almost kissed him in that moment.

He's standing before the mirror in his bedroom, rubbing E45 into his lacerated neck.  _What a ridiculous supposition_. He shakes his head, inwardly chastising himself for permitting the thought to even cross his mind. 

In fact, Ed surmises, if he's right about this (and he usually is), Oswald's attitude towards matters of the heart and the loins wavers somewhere between complete disinterest and abject disgust. When they're watching TV and a sex scene comes on, he'll change the channel. Or he'll start talking over it (much to Ed's frustration), about something suitably bland like that day's accounting or planning permission for a new set of traffic lights downtown.

Regardless, he'd like to have an honest conversation with Oswald about sex one day. Just to feed his own curiosity, of course.  Everyone at the GCPD had been lowkey obsessed with sex; hidden beneath a crude veneer of in-jokes that he'd never been invited to join in on. Officers complained about not getting it enough, or boasted about getting it too much. Or getting it elsewhere when their partners weren't giving it to them.

Ed settles into bed and picks up his hot chocolate from the side table, thinking about the last time he'd masturbated. He'd been trying to focus on hazy images of long hair brushing over his chest, the raw femaleness of soft belly curves and ass cheeks speckled with slight cellulite, of lipsticked mouths enclosing his cock, but it wasn't working. It had been easier when Kristen was still alive and he'd had a whole person to focus on, but this time the images hung in darkness, not connecting.

Then a thought so raw and graphic assailed him; the images evaporated and in their place emerged Oswald, on all fours before him like a dog. Attracted and repelled simultaneously, Ed mentally crawled into a heated pocket of self-consciousness that somehow amplified the sensations he was feeling. There was ... _something_ in seeing a figure he admired so much, a paragon of exquisitely-attired ruthlessness, undone and wanting. Fantasy Oswald lay beside him, naked and pink as the day he was born, curled up and licking his cock. A frisson of pleasure rippled through him as he thought of Oswald in his apartment, crying. Ed wanted to shove Oswald over onto his back, to bite him, to push into him; he wondered if he'd squirm and moan or fight back; wondered whether his asshole would feel as good as a cunt.

But that wasn't the end of it. _If only it had been,_ Ed ponders grimly.  Suddenly, it was as if his chest had been torn open, exposed to the feelings that flooded into it; the urge to _care_ , to press Oswald to his shoulder and never let him go, suffused him.

He came then, hard.

After that, it was as if a door had slammed shut.

Edward Nygma knows the mind is a strange instrument; he knows he's far from the first person to fantasize about a friend. He knows perception works differently in the realm of arousal; how people eroticize things they never usually would. Oswald's his best friend; his _boss_ , for crying out loud. He comforts himself with thoughts of telling Oswald about his little fantasy, in jest, of course; one of those _“you wouldn't believe what happened to me the other night! Seriously, you'll crack up laughing!”_ scenarios.

Oswald would probably be horrified.

_Good._

When he meets Isabella two weeks later, he knows he'll never need to open that door, ever again.

He knows it, with absolute certainty.

 *******************

**_cobblepot_ **

Oswald Cobblepot has never had intimate relations with anyone in his life.

Never wanted it. Never _needed_ it. Never understood anybody _else's_ need for it either, outside of the compulsion to reproduce. And that's hardly a pressing concern for him, personally speaking.

At Fish's club, he'd been surrounded by sex and the associated intrigues. Dancers and waiters offering covert 'extras' to customers willing to pay for the privilege. Fish herself, never short of a lovelorn swain or several, grovelling at her perfectly-pedicured feet. She'd juggled her lovers like a pro; Oswald had lost count of the number of times he'd been called into service as the go-between, responsible for ushering one beau out the back as another entered the affray, bearing flowers and jewels and proclaiming undying devotion. He'd never understood the games Fish thrived on. To be wanted by so many, to control them, was an intoxicating feeling. He understood _that,_ at least. But as for the other stuff ... it all seemed such a _bother._ There was enough crap out there, in his world, to deal with. Wasn't there?

He gets the 'urge' occasionally, but it's nothing he can't resolve with his own hand. It's impersonal, always, like scratching an itch. He needs no images, mental or real, to excite him. He just does what he needs to do until he finds relief, and that's that.

At least, that's how it's always been.  Until now.

He recalls that last, terrible year with Fish; his thirtieth birthday, when she'd sat him down, poured him a glass of champagne, and announced that it was time he became a “man.” He was mortified. She was his _boss_ , for heaven's sake; surely she didn't expect _him_ to ... ?

… Not quite, as it transpired.  She'd flipped open her cellphone, called a brothel she owned, pushed 200 dollars into his hand and sent him on his way. Two hours. He could go home afterwards.  _To recuperate,_ she'd said. He'd earned the night off.

Oswald remembers the brothel, the row of grey-faced men poring through assorted pornographic magazines. He recalls climbing up the creaking staircase to an uncertain fate; the room of forced jollity, mundanity peeking through the array of sexual and non-sexual accoutrements. The candy-striped wallpaper had a tear in it. A rusting can of air freshener lurked between sex toys and bottles of oil; a bucket and mop stuck out of a cupboard door that wouldn't close properly. A TV hoisted in an upper corner broadcast porn on an endless loop. There were several rolls of plastic sheeting. Oswald didn't even want to think about what _they_ might be used for.

He sat on the edge of the bed, creased with humiliation, waiting for the girl. He wondered what his mother would think of him if she knew. Soon the young woman emerged: a salamander-thin, corseted brunette with spiky shoulder blades and thigh-length PVC boots that coated her legs like shiny treacle. She leaned out of the window, smoking a cigarette, while Oswald glanced around the room, fidgeting. Then she strolled towards the tiny, utilitarian bathroom; he heard her gargling mouthwash.

“Do you wanna take a shower first?” she'd asked, popping her head around the door.

“No, thank you,” he replied crisply, his embarrassment intensifying.  He wondered if she meant that he smelled. “We always ask the clients that,” she explained breezily, probably sensing his unease. “Some guys come straight from work. If you don't need to, that's okay.”

“I don't.”

She bounded over and kneeled on the bed. She helped him shrug off his jacket; removed his shoes and socks. A woman on screen was now making exaggerated yelps as a man rutted into her from behind. The noise was excruciating. He cleared his throat.

“Could you … could you change the channel, please?”

“I can't. It's on a loop.” The young woman poked around in her handbag, retrieving a cluster of metallic-wrapped condom packets in different colors.

“How big are you?”

“I'm sorry?”

The girl's shoulders sagged. “Your _dick._ How big is it?”

“I...I don't know.”

“At least you're honest. Unlike most of 'em.” She crawled forward and bent over in front of him, pulling up her tiny skirt to reveal a slice of red satin panty.

“Like what you see?” she said.

Oswald glanced away, stricken.

“Can't we just … just _talk?_ ”

“Whatever.” The young woman rolled over and stretched out alongside him. He sensed she was as relieved as he was. A brief, awkward silence passed before she flicked him a sidelong glance.

“You're weird. Usually the virgins are _so_ up for it.”

Oswald scowled. “What makes you think I'm a virgin?”

She looked at him like he was stupid.

**********

Of course, the girl wound up telling Fish everything that had – or rather, hadn't – transpired in that room. He turned up to work the following night, braced for the slap, the accusations of wasting her money; fully expecting a docked pay check ... or worse. And indeed, Fish had ushered him into her office as soon as he arrived; he'd sat there twiddling his thumbs, trying hard to avoid her withering stare.

Then Oswald buckled and looked up.

“Is … is this about the …?”

Fish exploded with laughter.

“I _knew_ what would happen, silly boy. I just had to be _sure._ ”

Then Fish got up and sauntered away, patting his shoulder as she passed, chuckling to herself. She paused in the doorway, glancing back.

“Now go open up and greet the guests, and be quick about it,” she commanded, her tone resuming its usual frostiness.

Oswald left the room as ordered, brooding, his mouth a tight line. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes. He blinked them back. He would _not_ cry. He stabbed the key into the keyhole; twisted it, swung open the door with greater force than usual. They'd probably all been having a good laugh at his expense; Fish, Gilzean, all of them. He pictured them sitting around a table, champagne flowing, waving aloft cigars and cigarillos as they howled about the Umbrella Boy chickening out of getting laid. _Hilarious, was it not?_    After all, he was a _loser_ , wasn't he? The patsy who never saw the tripwire? He was someone ….

… He was _someone_.

Someone who – on the right day, at the right time – would make every last one of them sorry they were ever born.

 **********

Oswald knows instinctively that sex – _real_ sex – has little to do with whatever was supposed to happen – and for all he knows, still happens - in that room. He remembers the magazines his mother used to read. There was always an advice columnist with a demented smile, her voice lifting off the page as she prattled on about “experimentation” and “sensual massage” and the like; how role play was “fun!” As if a ridiculous costume made a whit of difference. Sex wasn't something that could be contained in a box plastered with pictures of reddened lips and stockinged legs. 

He still feels that way. If he'd kissed Ed in that moment, as he'd intended to, they'd be making love by now. Oswald is absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure of it. He thinks of Ed touching him; filling him up. “I want you inside me,” he'd once heard somebody say on a TV show. _It isn't just about the physical act of being penetrated_ , he thinks. _It's about feeling that person everywhere; on the surface, below the surface; in your heart._

He slides his hand into his pajamas, the swell of his cock voluptuous against his palm. He imagines what it might feel like; Ed taking him in his mouth, Ed's cock against the crack of his ass. Fantasy Ed's hands and tongue were everywhere. Oswald groans and surges. He wants … he wants _so much_ , he just … wants _him_.

 ***********

_the future_

Ed makes a sharp right turn, picking his way along the road leading down to the river. This area was formerly the garment district; rows of warehouses and factories coughing out reams of attire for catalog companies and department stores. The buildings were eventually transformed into cheap apartments, then expensive ones; others became bland, bright offices and trendy restaurants.

There were still some factories left when Ed had first moved here, almost sixty years ago now. He'd take long walks through the area on his days off, noting how the place became increasingly tattered and frayed the closer he got to the riverbank; abandoned, burnt-out structures gaping either side of him like rows of rotting teeth, and not a soul for what seemed like miles.

Gotham had been desolate in those days; the city, ironically enough, had received a boost once Batman and the rogues became fully active. Intrigue flooded the city's veins, kickstarting the heart even as the bloodshed doubled, tripled. Then came the gawping tourists, morbidly fascinated by the drama whirling around the blasted Bat and his colourful cast of adversaries.

This coincided with the moment the city began its slow, steady transformation. Hospitals and schools dramatically improved. Spaces were created for leisure and recuperation. Entire areas underwent regeneration; many such changes were the handiwork of Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox. The city regained much of the stately dignity it had held in years long past. Yet through it all, Arkham remained, a defiant canker on the city's face; each attempt at stemming the tide was met by ever-increasing waves of rogues, a reflection of the city seen through a glass darkly.

Ed's heart quickens at the rush of memories. Dayglo-green question marks litter the night sky, obscuring the Bat signal. He sees himself blown up big on a screen, gleeful, throwing back his head in laughter. He recalls being hauled off to Arkham, bowing in mockery at his captors, spitting fury at a lurking, scowling Batman.

Then there's Oswald, _always_ Oswald; lumbering along the asylum corridor with that oddly intimidating stagger of his, jaw set in determination, surrounded by heavies like monoliths packing heat. Oswald glances sideways at Ed, who's pouting through the bars of a holding cell, and nods once, curtly; Ed _knows_ he'll be out soon, simple as that. He sees the two of them on a balcony overlooking the city, toasting their mutual brilliance. Then Oswald post-climax, flushed and panting against a mound of pillows, regarding Ed through half-shuttered eyes as the latter loses control at the sight and spills into him with a choked cry, their fingers entwined.

Ed stops before a store front with exquisite little things in the window; Moroccan lanterns, carved wooden cats with elongated necks, paper butterflies, a little family of origami penguins. He closes his eyes against the sudden sting of tears.

Oswald is not here.

He has to go to the docks.


End file.
